The Jook

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It was hot as an Alabama outhouse when I got off the plane from Barcelona. LAX was busy like the mug as I stood in line for customs. Time was, people would have been sweating me to sign something cute for their granny, or some boob-job chick would have been asking me to write my number on the top side of the tit poking out of her halter. Now all I got was them sideways looks, that frown that said, "You look like you used to be somebody."

"What was your business in Barcelona, Mr. Raines?"

The bureaucratic dude gave me the once-over like I was any other square. 'Cept white boys were always a little curious about brothers who traveled overseas, thinking we were all hooked up with Farrakhan on a trip to pick up the bombs in Iraq or some shit.

"I was playing ball with the Dragons. You know, NFL Europe League." I said it as if he, or any other of the hundreds of people running around, had actually taken the time to watch one of the games. Hardly.

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